Across the ceiling an exodus
of bright green mold begins
the laborious journey, deserting
the anonymous darkness of high rafters
where bats sleep wet daylight hours away,
rocking in cartilage and velvet. You think
it's only a dream, drenched in cilantro
and monsoon; & you rinse your flushed
temples & cheeks with tap water, working
clear antibacterial soap over your fingers.
But given time, things learn the secret
of interstices: even the rind of an indifferent
orange contains so much scent; & fragments
of skin sleep in fingernail beds, prickling
to changes in temperature. Who is in every
mouthful of taste, in the slow simmer,
in the indentation where two bones meet,
barely touching, at the base of the neck?
Whose face did moonlight retrace
on the contours of your palm, so skin
could call back the lost syllables
of its name? & what is the name of this
equation, where on all sides risk
& fulfillment are interchangeable, where
they wrap their legs around each other
& kiss over the abyss, over the circle
of fire; the stain & trickle of sweat,
the bead of salt, the fluid of sex,
the crust on bread & linens that
hardens after, refusing to forget?